by Ed Zotti
Saturday, February 5. Chief late getting to Barn House; discover he has put bushings in backward. Can’t get solder to melt; hand torches don’t put out enough heat in cold. At night Tom returns drunk and plays “How Much Is That Doggy in the Window” on trumpet while dogs howl. “Nothing like fun at the old ballpark,” says Chief.
Sunday, February 6. Good day—buy new tip for torch that delivers more heat, get all piping for mudroom radiator cut and soldered. One problem: three-eighth-inch right-angle drill, which Chief has had repaired, breaks again. Admit defeat, tell Chief to get sturdier half-inch model. Mary brings kids to house briefly; Ryan wants to stay and help Daddy. Next weekend, I say.
Monday, February 7. Get call at Barn House—Ma has fallen, broken femur, in hospital. Talk to Pops, seems pretty helpless. No carpenters; Tony says waiting for me to finish. Do much piping. Light snow; sit on radiator eating pizza, admire pretty view of jungle backyard. Snow thicker after nightfall; three inches predicted tonight, four more tomorrow. Can’t get windshield un-fogged till halfway home. Snow driving hard at midnight.
Wednesday, February 9. Tom calls; on returning to house last night found footprints in snow leading to rear—someone tried to force back basement door. Call Tony to see about getting dead bolt. Sonja calls to say check ready but she’s still waiting for architect’s report.
Friday, February 11. Been going to twenty-four-hour diner at end of block for eggs, sausage, and hash browns in preparation for sweating pipe. Today sit next to talkative Irish drunk with bad teeth, what look like cigarette burns on lips, who announces he’s from County Clare. Feel as if surrounded by derelicts. Talk to Ma; she’s upset with hospital, weak due to combination of broken leg plus multiple previous broken bones. Some hospital staffer giving her grief. Call doctor, nurse; they say they will see about Ma. Tell Pops to help more with Ma. Get into argument with my sister about Pops.
Sunday, February 13. More pipes. Somebody blocks Barn House driveway with his car.
Monday, February 14. Visit Ma at hospital; doing better. Different guy blocks driveway.
On Wednesday, February 16, the Chief and I finished sweating the rear radiator loop. It’s unnecessary to recount this struggle in detail. The molten globule of solder on my kneecap—that had no permanent consequences, other than the scar. The fifty-odd joints the Chief was obliged to sweat while contorted in anatomically impossible positions with the ambient temperature at 3 degrees Kelvin—eh, all in a day’s (okay, a week’s) work. Placing the system in operation was no longer fraught with drama. Having become confident of our plumbing skills, we were more casual about filling the pipes with water and no doubt in consequence the process was more eventful, the high point being our discovery of a joint we’d neglected to solder when water sprayed across the basement. That oversight having been addressed, we got both loops operating, and that plus the reconstruction of the exterior walls and winter’s retreat sufficed to raise the house’s interior temperature to 64 degrees.
That night the Chief and I stood in the basement drinking celebratory beers and admiring our handiwork. Even if it offered no operational efficiencies, a copper-plumbed hot-water heating system would be worth having on aesthetic grounds alone. The pipes ramified in all directions from the aorta at the furnace, the copper gleaming softly in the light of the scattered bulbs. The routing had been accomplished exclusively with right angles and forty-five-degree bends, as though the London Underground diagram had been rendered in 3-D, with air-conditioning ducts running through it in place of the Thames and a leaky gate valve at Charing Cross. It was gorgeous, in any case, and we felt pretty satisfied with ourselves. The thing worked—that was the central fact. We’d fabricated a system out of salvaged parts and a pile of pipe, with no prior knowledge and minimal assistance, and now it just hummed away.
Thursday, February 17. Awakened after midnight by phone call from Tom to tell me no replacement filter for shop vacuum cleaner. Groggy on rising at four a.m. for flight to New Jersey on business. Must have returned Friday but can’t remember.
On Sunday, February 20, I got into an argument with Mary—she was upset because we’d spent little time together and I hadn’t done much for her birthday, the seventeenth. She was now in her eighth month of pregnancy. The plucky Jacki, an art history grad with a nose ring78 living in Wicker Park, provided child care on workdays, but most other times Mary was home alone with the kids, now four and two. I admitted I’d been a little distracted but pointed out that I was in the midst of a major construction project that was way behind schedule—by now we’d abandoned any hope of finishing before the baby was born—my mother was in the hospital, I was trying to make money to fill the gaping hole in our finances, and between trying to keep the bank happy and the situation at the house under control I was feeling more or less constantly harassed.
The argument ended inconclusively, as it was bound to do. If I’d been out chasing floozies or Mary had been running up big bills at the spa—here at least we might have assigned blame. In marital difficulties arising from fixing up an old house, however, no one was at fault. Your problems stemmed from your virtues, or so it seemed to me. I was single-minded, sure, but the job demanded single-mindedness, and if in pursuit of it I neglected the candy-and-flowers end of things, well, I was about at the limit of what one man could do. Mary, on the other hand, could say with perfect justice that a house in the city was my idea (for that matter, so was having a third child), and if that left me no time for the customary niceties, I was hardly being fair to expect her to just suck it up.
The crux of our difficulties, as I think back on it now, was that, like the house, I was a throwback to a departed age. Some guys might feel the need to buy oversized vehicles or go shirtless at football games to demonstrate their manliness; I wasn’t one of them. I knew my calling in life—to bring order out of chaos. True, our present circumstances involved a little more chaos than I felt altogether comfortable with, but you played the hand you were dealt. I had gotten us into this fix and I would get us out; I just needed some space. In that respect I was my father’s son. When I was growing up, my old man had worked on the house and my mother took care of the kids—that was the natural order of things, and neither in my hearing had ever complained about it.
But that was then and this was now. One big difference was that, whereas my mother had stayed home during my earliest years (she returned to teaching when we were older), Mary worked throughout—in fact, though I made a good buck by writerly standards, as a bank executive she reliably earned more than me. Another difference, already alluded to, was that our project was far larger than either of the home renovations my parents had taken on. Work on their houses had been intermittent, with long pauses between stages, and they’d never had to move out; however annoying the sawdust, my father at least had been on the premises most of the time. Furthermore, my father’s job (he’d been a railway clerk) involved set hours—when he was done for the day he was done. Not me. When I wasn’t at the Barn House, I was holed up in my office at our town house working on paperwork or freelance writing assignments. Finally, and I concede this was a purely personal quirk, I had a tendency to get lost in my own little world. All of this meant that for long stretches Mary was essentially alone and increasingly resentful. Still, while all this is clearer in hindsight, even now I’m not sure how much more I could have done.
Monday, February 21. Bank still not happy with fricking town house title. Confer with Bob. Chief calls—haven’t heard from him in a while. Turns out the day after we got rear radiator loop operating he went back to Barn House to pick up tools, then on way home lost control of car on icy patch on Lower Wacker Drive, crashed into pillar at thirty miles per hour. Vehicle totaled, wrist and ribs broken, in cast for six weeks. On leaving hospital returned to Lower Wacker to see about car, found windshield smashed, belongings stolen, including tools, cell phone, car stereo, jacket. Thief left his hat, though.
Tuesday, February 22. Spend day at Barn House finishing odds an
d ends so carpenters can work while back in Jersey City on extended business. Bob calls, downtown getting town house title straightened out. In bed at midnight, up at three to finish work work; can see I won’t get done in time for 6:30 a.m. plane so postpone flight till 9:30, which is delayed till 11:45 due to heavy snow. Twenty inches in Chicago after I leave.
Friday, February 25. In NJ; Mary tells me loan payment to Tony finally went through after month of paper shuffling.
Thursday, March 3. Back in Chicago ten p.m.
Sunday, March 6. Invoice NJ work—$12,000. Mary says will pay off recent debts but still no money for taxes.
Monday, March 7. Take kids to visit Ma, now in rehab facility.
Tuesday, March 8. Car fails state emissions test. Must have done something to get fixed but notes don’t say what.
Wednesday, March 9. Tony says carpenters starting on roof today. Mary says between us we make good money but can’t afford clothes, vacations, or dinner out and drive eight-year-old Toyota. Clean up town house for showing to prospective buyer.
Thursday, March 10. Go to Chief’s house to help him install modem in computer. Mary getting worried—I haven’t been to Barn House in days.
Sunday, March 13. At house for first time in more than a week. Roof looks great, as does house in general.
Tuesday, March 15. Talk to custom stair guy to get estimate to replace balustrade and other parts missing from front-hall staircase. Cost: close to $2,000. Tony and Charlie come over; we argue about base for porch columns, conclude carpenters haven’t followed plans.
Wednesday, March 16. While walking to house from diner, hear bang, commotion behind me; turn to see high school-age kids bolting down street. Evidently trying to break into car trunk.
Saturday, March 19. Warmer. Start insulating attic.
Sunday, March 20. Sheet-metal guys start on upstairs AC ducts. Toward end of day watch rain out rear attic door.
Wednesday, March 23. Beautiful weather, close to 70, sunny. Mary brings kids to house; crawl all over, have great time. Tell Tom he needs to clean up dog poop in basement. Carpenters working on siding this week. Do more attic insulation.
Saturday, March 26. Start repairing decrepit attic floor. Many boards loose; Ryan put leg through gap earlier.
Sunday, March 27. Mary due any day, having rough time—tired, kids demanding, laundry, and so on. Stress giving her contractions. Stay home.
On Thursday, March 31, at 2:15 a.m., Mary started having serious contractions. We called the babysitter and arrived at the hospital at 4:30. Andrew Jeffrey was born at 9:20 a.m. Once he was cleaned up and deposited on Mary’s chest, the obstetrician, a jovial, no-nonsense woman, stood at the foot of the bed flanked by two nurses, all in long smocks splashed with the mess of childbirth, looking as satisfied with a job well done as I’d ever felt after a day hoisting radiators. Mary told me later she was surprised I stayed at the hospital for several hours afterward and didn’t rush back to the house.
Friday, April 1. Take kids to visit Mary at hospital, do work work rest of time.
Saturday, April 2. Pick up Mary and Andrew at hospital. Tony sends flowers. Beautiful day; people stop by.
A s had been our custom with our first two, Mary breast-fed Andrew except at eleven p.m., when I gave him a bottle and walked him to sleep so she could get a few hours’ rest. I loved walking babies, having spent hours at it with Ryan, who was the Swiss watch of infants, sleep-wise, and required a good forty-five minutes of swaying ambulation before I felt sure enough of his having drifted off to lay him in his crib, stealthy as a burglar. Half the time he promptly woke up anyway, whereupon the process started all over, but it was one of those patient tasks to which I was well suited. Andrew presented a different problem. He would nod off quickly enough but then wake up later and fidget, which meant more walking, adding sleep deprivation to a list of challenges that was already long.
Sunday, April 3. In-laws come over, make Easter dinner. Afterward go to library, work.
Monday, April 4. Meet with Tony and Jerry at house to review progress. Exterior pretty much done but back door a nailed-up sheet of plywood. At first thought this temporary, but after passage of considerable time and still no door I ask Tony, who says carpenters waiting for me. I sputter: Me? Where does Tony think I’m going to get door? He points to passage in contract saying owner responsible for doors. Says interior doors, I retort; this is exterior door. We inspect relevant opening; exteriorness beyond dispute. “I guess we make a little boo-boo,” says Tony, shooting look at Jerry. Door appears in due course.
Tuesday, April 5. Spend most of day nailing down attic floor planking. Tom hovers; says woman yelled at him because he told her she was beautiful.
Wednesday, April 6. More planking. Tom tells me about bar fights in tavern at end of alley.
On Thursday, April 7, I started on the electrical work. In contrast to the heating, this presented no technical challenges of moment; the main problem was that there was an enormous amount to do, since you couldn’t just tack up plastic cable in the slapdash manner countenanced pretty much everywhere but Chicago—you had to use conduit, as I say. I didn’t mind; I liked bending conduit—it was an esoteric skill, like blowing smoke rings or twirling a lariat. More important, I felt conduit was better fitted to the gravity of the task—namely, keeping people and electricity separated, in contrast to plastic cable, an inherently flimsy material that to my mind didn’t foster the appropriate attitude of respect.
A friend in California once told me about his house, which I imagined (never actually having seen it) to be a typical West Coast mountain domicile equipped with a hot tub and redwood deck. Like every other house in California it was wired with plastic cable. Some item of electrical apparatus in the house had ceased to function, and my friend ingeniously isolated the fault to a length of plastic cable running through the crawl space beneath the house. Hoping to ascertain precisely where the juice had hung up, he inserted himself beneath the house, scraped the insulation off the conductors with a knife (the cable was stapled to the underside of a floor joist, and I had the impression loomed perhaps a foot above his nose), and confirmed the presence of 120 VAC with a meter. “You did what?” I exclaimed, explaining that scraping the insulation off live wires was never smart, and doing so while lying on damp earth in a confined space was about as stupid as it was possible to get and still have a nervous system. Conduit, in my view, would have more successfully conveyed what the plastic cable hadn’t—that is, Muy peligroso, dumbshit. Mitts off.
First task: mounting boxes for outlets, switches, and light fixtures, which I’d later connect with conduit.
Saturday, April 9. Up early, work on house paperwork. Feeling harried—been staying up late with fidgety Andrew. In effort to share kid-watching duties take Ryan to house; he’s sweet but wants me to look at something every couple minutes—don’t get much done, distracted, make mistakes. Tell Mary we need to rethink this or won’t finish till December. She says she’ll take kids full-time again. Up till twelve fifteen a.m. working on fax to Tony about changes.
Monday, April 11. At client’s all day. Mary calls; Andrew sick. Take to hospital; they both stay overnight.
Tuesday, April 12. Tony calls to discuss Tom. Carpenters need to move him upstairs so basement floor can be repoured, but Tony doesn’t want dogs to accompany him because of smell—they produce voluminous waste; he doesn’t want it soaking into floorboards. We agree carpenters will build kennel for dogs in backyard.
Thursday, April 14. Mail in federal tax return. As expected, owe $20,000 we don’t have. Enclose note saying we’ll pay soon. Chris from bank calls; architect inspecting house noticed owner’s statement shows plumbing work as complete but obviously isn’t. I freak—if project total increased by amount actually required to finish (as opposed to amount we told bank), we must come up with another $14,000 in owner’s equity. Kevin the plumber calls looking for $2,200; I ask what he thinks it will cost to finish job. Says $4,500. Ask him to give me lowball es
timate for $2,000 to keep bank happy. Feel as if organizing drug deal.
Friday, April 15. Tony tells me Stefan, one of carpenters, who previous year had nearly sliced off thumb, fell four feet off ladder, shattered upper right arm, needed surgery to insert ten-inch pin.
Monday, April 18. Town house showing in morning; at Barn House by two to do more electrical boxes. In evening drunk shows up asking for Tom; staggers down front steps when I say not here. Leave at eleven p.m., then up with Andrew till one thirty a.m.
Tuesday, April 19. Meet Chief at house—down to plastic restrainer on arm but can’t work yet. Discuss electrical.
Wednesday, April 20. Real estate agent calls. City home sales slow; would we consider lease for town house? Not enthusiastic.
Sunday, April 24. Warm day; Mary and I take kids to Fullerton Avenue beach. On return talk to Katie, one of town house neighbors, who says she and husband have sold unit, moving to North Shore with their two kids. Two other couples in development with small children also heading for burbs. “This is a great place for kids, but everybody with kids is moving out,” she says. People in our circle experiencing rash of petty crime—Jacki the babysitter has been burglarized four times in eighteen months in two different city apartments. Eventually she moves to California.
That evening I went to the Barn House to inspect progress in the basement and was joined there by Tom. In preparation for pouring the new floor, the carpenters were demolishing the ancient partitions and carting out the debris. “Lotta history being hauled away here,” he observed. Tom was never so annoying as when he was right, and this was one of those times. It wasn’t that the repulsive basement contained anything I cared to save—on the contrary, it was a collection of scabrous junk, and the practical man in me felt righteous for causing it to be expunged from the earth. At the same time, I recognized that I was erasing part of the history that was one of the reasons I’d bought the house—a record of futility and half-assedness, to be sure, but a record just the same. Twenty-four hours later there was no sign it had ever been.